The Eight Trigrams Sealing Style.
One of the most important sealing techniques in shinobi history. The Uzumaki clan's masterpiece.
Some would say it was the reason they were arrogant enough to think they could make their village on their own, isolated on that island of theirs. Hell, some historians even argued that the Eight Trigrams Sealing Style was what started this whole jinchuriki business in the first place. Maybe it did.
Their greatest achievement became their greatest curse. If your clan can bind a hurricane into a teapot and leave it simmering for decades, you stop needing neighbors. You start writing treaties on your own paper.
I have found in some scrolls and books, that were more of a waste of time than anything, that the seal was exactly what drove the other great hidden villages to gang up on Uzushiogakure.
And the logic stands. In a world where monsters are nukes and chakra is currency, the people who can cage a nuke become kings by default. Whoever controlled them controlled the balance of power. The most feared, the most dangerous force imaginable.
So you either marry the king, rob him, or cut his throat in the night.
Konohagakure chose the former. But the other great hidden villages weren't that lucky, comfortable, or had a monster of their own at the level of Hachirama.
The alliance that wiped Uzugakure didn't happen because everyone suddenly agreed on anything; it happened because everyone agreed on that.
The irony was that they only half-succeeded. They scattered the clan, burned their village, killed most of their sealing masters, but the technique survived as well as some bastardized versions the other villages currently employ.
Currently, as far as I knew, the Eight Trigrams Sealing Style remained the safest and most stable containment method ever developed. It was so incredibly resilient that it could withstand chakra surges that would shatter weaker sealing techniques. So reliable that someone wouldn't hesitate to seal a demon into their infant child within hours of birth.
And that reliability, that proven stability, was exactly why I was here…. and for lack of a better choice, of course.
There was also the fact that I was under surveillance for who knows how long, and I had to take the window where the Hyuuga was not around and act.
I swallowed hard and looked down at the Uzumaki matriarch lying on her back on the couch in her living room like a dare I should've had the sense to ignore. She held her blouse up with both hands, exposing her belly to me like some kind of offering. Her long red hair spilled over the couch cushions like liquid fire, catching the light streaming through the windows.
She was beautiful. Her stomach was pale with that peach cast the redhead tends to carry, smooth despite her late thirties and early life as a kunoichi, with just the faintest softness that spoke to her age and motherhood. Her belly button was a perfect little indent, and I could see the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Her hips looked wider from this angle, womanly curves hidden beneath that loose green dress that had ridden up slightly when she'd laid down. One knee tented her green dress.
Her face was flushed pink, lips pressed together in a thin line as she stared determinedly at the wall, refusing to meet my eyes. I could see the embarrassment written across her features, the way she was trying so hard to maintain some dignity in this questionable and arguably undignified situation.
I licked my lips, suddenly doubting how things had moved this quickly. Maybe the Devil's Whisper had worked better than I'd given it credit for. Otherwise, it made absolutely no fucking sense for the Red Hot Habanero to so willingly expose her belly like a tamed tiger. It didn't fit any rational equation.
Even my lies were improvisational comedy now. Stomach massage, I had told her. What the hell was even that? I wanted to scoff at my own subpar improvisation and stupidity. It was the most ridiculous excuse I'd ever come up with, and somehow she'd bought it.
As insane as it sounded, she had somehow agreed to this charade. Even more insane, it was to work her up until her panties got wet, until she was aroused enough for them to carry her scent the way I'd claimed I needed.
None of that made any fucking sense. There was negative logic in all of this.
I could have found a better workaround, but... it worked, I guess.
My hand slowly lowered toward her exposed, inviting skin. The moment my fingertips made contact with her belly, she shivered.
"Cold," she said quietly, her voice softer than I'd heard her.
"Sorry," I muttered absentmindedly, though I was barely paying attention to my words. I was too focused on how fair and soft her stomach felt beneath my fingers, feeling the silk-slick give of warm skin over iron undercurrent. I dragged my fingertips in fascination across her skin in what I hoped passed for a massage motion, watching goosebumps rise in the wake of my touch. Her abs tensed involuntarily, muscles flickering beneath that pale skin.
Her skin had the particular softness that came with age and motherhood, not the firm tautness of a teenage kunoichi, but something richer. More lived-in. The faint stretch marks near her hips told stories of pregnancy and childbirth, of a body that had created life. It was doing things to me that I hadn't expected.
I'd missed so much in being hasty the first time I'd had her... Rushed glory is just clumsy greed in fancy boots.
My fingers twitched, and I pinched her, because apparently I was twelve.
Kushina flinched and turned her head to glare at me, though compared to the murderous looks she usually sent my way, this was practically gentle.
"What the hell was that?" she demanded, one hand darting down to catch my wrist, the other wobbling as it held her blouse in place.
"My bad," I said smoothly, meeting her eyes. "I was just checking if this was real. A genjutsu this heavenly would be insanely dangerous, it wou—"
"Don't," she cut me off. "Don't do that," Kushina repeated firmly, squeezing my hand and looking at me seriously. "This is just a stomach massage. Nothing more. Don't make it anything else. Keep your silver tongue in check."
Is this the excuse she wants to go with? I wondered inwardly as I held her gaze. I was honestly a bit disappointed, though I couldn't quite pinpoint why.
I couldn't tell if it was because she'd been so easy about offering her panties, or that she'd readily agreed to this ridiculous charade, or the fact that she was clinging to that flimsy excuse like a weaker woman might.
Would I feel this way if it were any other woman? Well... it depended, really.
I really needed to stop this, putting her on a pedestal and building her altars. She was just a woman like all the others... no, not like the others, she was too unique for that. But still, she wasn't some infallible deity. She'd already given me proof enough to the contrary.
She was a woman. Not a normal one, she was too fierce, too complicated, too dangerous, damn too fucking confusing, but a woman nonetheless. I should stop treating her like something outside the scope of what was human.
I nodded slowly. "Alright."
I shifted position, kneeling properly beside the couch so I had better access. "I'm going to start the massage now," I said, internally rolling my eyes at the absurdity of it all.
I gently grabbed the hand that was gripping my wrist and guided it to her side. Then I went a step further, reaching for the hand that was holding her blouse just below her breasts, intending to move it away as well.
She resisted immediately, her grip tightening on the fabric. "What are you—"
"Relax," I said, letting just a whisper of my power color my voice, not enough to compel, just enough to soothe. "A proper massage requires full access to the area. This is just a stomach massage, remember? You need to let your arms rest at your sides so I can work properly."
She held me in that ambered stare a heartbeat longer than was comfortable and then nodded once. "Just a massage," she said softly.
"Just a massage," I echoed. A massage that will make your married cunt drip. She allowed me to guide her hand to her side.
By moving her arms from that closed, protective position across her body to an open, vulnerable one at her sides, I'd effectively forced her to expose her torso completely. It removed her last barrier of control and modesty, and I could see the psychological effect immediately.
Kushina shifted restlessly, her legs moving beneath her dress, one foot rubbing against the other nervously. Her breathing had picked up slightly, and there was a new tension in her shoulders that had nothing to do with physical discomfort.
"Just... make it quick," she said to the wall.
Make what quick? I wanted to ask, wanted to tease her about what exactly she thought was going to happen here. But I held back. This whole insane charade was supposedly to get her aroused enough that her panties would carry her scent, and I was genuinely curious how her brain was justifying any of this.
But whatever mental gymnastics she was doing, my real goal was the seal hidden somewhere on her exposed stomach. Before I could make any attempt to reveal it, I needed to get her relaxed and in a more... forgiving mood.
I hummed before kneeling beside her. I started blowing warm air on my hands, then placed both palms flat against her soft belly. "Here we go."
She hummed nervously and, without meaning to, a sound that vibrated more in her chest than her throat, her stomach muscles jumping at the contact.
I started slowly, just gentle circular motions with my palms, working outward from her navel. My thumbs drew lazy circles around her cute navel, clockwise, like I was coaxing a clock to remember time. Muscle fought me and then softened by degrees. Her skin was incredibly soft, with just enough give to feel womanly without being anything less than perfect. Her breathing changed as I worked, evened into a measured, tight cadence.
"How's the pressure?" I asked, keeping my voice professionally neutral even as my pulse quickened.
"It's... fine," she managed, though her voice sounded strained.
I gradually increased the pressure, working my fingertips into the motion. Her stomach was surprisingly sensitive. Every time I pressed a little deeper, she'd tense up or let out a small breath. When I worked near her ribs, just below her breasts, she actually bit her lip.
"This is where tension camps," I murmured. She didn't answer, but the leg under the dress slid an inch, fabric whispering. I flattened one palm and drew it along the line of her oblique, heel to heel, mapping the angle of her hip without trespassing. The green dress rustled, and the scent of detergent mingled with her, bright and human.
I spread my fingers and brushed the pads along the lower belly, staying well above scandal, and she caught her breath and released it in three short, silent pulses. Her cheeks had gone a color that matched her hairline. I dragged my nails lightly back up, not enough to scratch, just enough to set gooseflesh rippling. She made a tiny sound, the sort of noise a proud person hates admitting lives in their throat.
I could see her thighs shifting beneath her dress, could hear the way her breathing was becoming more shallow. When I let my thumbs work in small circles just above her hip bones, she made another sound, more, she gasped.
The reaction was fascinating. I'd known the Uzumaki woman had heightened sensitivity, but this was beyond what I'd expected. Every touch seemed amplified, sending little shocks through her system. When I worked my way back to her navel, circling it with one finger, her hips actually lifted slightly off the couch.
I could feel my own arousal building as I watched her fight against her body's responses. The way she was trying so hard to stay silent, to pretend this was just innocent, was incredibly erotic.
I let my hands work lower, toward the waistband of her dress, and she immediately tensed.
"That's not my stomach," she said quickly.
"It's your lower abdomen," I corrected smoothly. "Very important pressure points here for... circulation."
She glared at me suspiciously, but when I started working just above her dress line, her eyes fluttered closed despite herself. I could feel her getting warmer under my hands, could see the flush spreading down from her face to her chest.
When I found a particularly sensitive spot just to the left of her navel and pressed with my thumb, she actually arched slightly, another soft sound escaping her throat.
I worked that spot until I could see her legs starting to tremble, until her breathing became ragged. Just when I could sense she was approaching something intense, I moved my hands away to work on a completely different area.
Her eyes snapped open, and she shot me a glare that could have melted steel.
I suppressed a laugh and pretended not to notice, working innocent circles near her ribs until she relaxed again. This is so fun. I had made women cum with their tits, but with their belly? This was a nice challenge….. or at least it seemed so at first, but this redhead milf was so strung and so in the edge already.
I slowly built her back up, finding all her sensitive spots, learning the map of her responses. When I brought her to that edge again and pulled away, her glare was sharper.
The third time I did it, she actually made a frustrated sound in her throat.
"Problem?" I asked innocently.
"Just... finish whatever you're doing," she said tightly, not quite able to admit what she wanted.
By the fourth time I edged her, she was gripping the couch cushions and breathing hard. When I pulled away again, she actually grabbed my wrist.
"Don't stop," she said quickly, then seemed to realize what she'd said and released me. "I mean... you keep starting and stopping. It's... distracting." She flicked my wrist with two fingers. "Quit playing."
"I'm being thorough," I said with a slight smile. "Good massage technique requires building up the... tension... in the muscles before release."
She stared at me, and I could see the war playing out behind her eyes. She knew exactly what I was doing, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it out loud.
The fifth time I brought her right to the brink and stopped, she actually made a sound of pure frustration, her hips lifting off the couch in an unconscious attempt to maintain the contact.
"You're doing this on purpose," she accused, though her voice was breathless rather than angry.
"Doing what?" I asked with false innocence, even as I prepared to reveal what I'd really come here for.
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